The cool night air was a shock to his system as he burst out of the auction house, the sounds of the ensuing chaos a fading echo behind him. He was in the narrow alleyway, the one he had used to climb to the roof, but this time he was on the ground, a wounded animal on the run. He leaned against the grimy brick wall, his body a tapestry of pain, the blood from his wounds soaking into his clothes.
Arima grunted, a wave of dizziness washing over him. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the reality of his injuries was setting in. He was a mess, a bloody, broken thing, but he was still alive. And he was still thinking.
"The Sea Prism Stone," he thought, his mental voice a raw whisper. "I need it."
He forced himself to move, pushing off the wall and stumbling deeper into the alley, the darkness a welcome cloak. He could hear the sounds of the town, the distant shouts, the clatter of hooves on cobblestones, but they were a world away, a muted symphony of a life he was no longer a part of. He was a ghost, a phantom in the night, a man with a price on his head and a target on his back.
He found a small, hidden alcove, a forgotten space behind a pile of rotting crates. He collapsed into it, the darkness a welcome embrace. He closed his eyes, focusing his will, and accessed the inventory. The grid appeared in his mind's eye, the icons a familiar constellation of tools and treasures. He focused on the lead-lined box, the one with the Sea Prism Stones.
[Withdraw Item: Sea Prism Stone (x1)]
A small, milky-white rock materialised in his hand. It was cool to the touch, heavier than it looked, and it seemed to absorb the light, a small, dark void in the palm of his hand. He could feel a strange energy emanating from it, a faint, almost imperceptible hum that resonated with a deep, primal part of his soul. The energy of the sea.
Arima grunted, a flicker of understanding cutting through the pain and the exhaustion. He was a collector of weapons, and this was the ultimate prize, a weapon that could level the playing field, that could make him a god-killer. He tucked the stone into a small, leather pouch, then took out another, and another, until he had a small, heavy collection of them, a handful of divine retribution.
He could feel it. The pain was receding, a dull, fading ache, replaced by a familiar, welcome surge of strength. His body was a machine, a finely tuned instrument of destruction, and it was repairing itself at an astonishing rate. He was a monster, a beast, a creature of myth and legend, and he was starting to embrace it.
He could feel the city stirring, the guards' shouts growing louder, the sound of a horn, a call to arms. The Collector was a powerful man, and he would not let this insult go unpunished. He had to move.
He stood up, his body a coiled spring of raw power, the Sea Prism Stones a heavy, reassuring weight in his pouch. He was a predator, a hunter, and he was not going to die in this alley, not like this, not without a fight.
"I'm going back," he thought, his mental voice a low growl.
"He has information I need," Arima countered, a cold, hard glint in his eyes. "And he has something else. A ship. A large, well-armed ship, headed for Sabaody. I'm going to take it. I'm going to take everything."
"I have a strategy," Arima thought, a grim smile on his face. "It's called 'overwhelming force'."
He accessed the [Shop], the menu appearing in his mind's eye. He scrolled through the [Items], his focus sharp and analytical. He wasn't looking for exotic weapons or legendary tools. He was looking for something practical, something he could use right now, something that would give him an edge.
He found it.
[Item: Smoke Bombs (x6)]
Description: Ceramic spheres filled with a fast-acting chemical compound that creates a thick, obscuring cloud of white smoke upon impact. Effective for disorientation and providing cover.
Price: 50,000 Berry each.
[Item: Flash Bangs (x4)]
Description: Metal canisters that emit an intensely bright flash and a deafening bang upon activation. Temporarily blinds and deafens anyone in the immediate vicinity, a powerful tool for disrupting an enemy's formation.
Price: 75,000 Berry each.
"I'll take them all," he thought, confirming the purchase. The items materialised in the inventory, their icons a new addition to the grid. He withdrew one of the smoke bombs, the cool, smooth ceramic a familiar comfort in his hand. He was a Yakuza, a man who understood the importance of tools, and these were some of the best.
He left the alcove, the darkness a welcome cloak. He moved through the town, a ghost in the throng, the Observation Haki a constant, low-level hum, painting the town in shades of life and intent. He could feel the guards' panicked energy, a chaotic, angry swarm converging on the auction house. They were looking for him, a lone wolf in a city of hounds, but they were looking in the wrong places. They were searching the streets and the docks, the obvious places, the places a common criminal would hide. He was not a common criminal. He was something else entirely.
He circled the auction house, a predator stalking its prey, and found a weakness. A small, unassuming door, tucked away in the back, a service entrance for deliveries and waste removal. It was unguarded, a forgotten point of entry, a chink in the armour. It was perfect.
He placed the smoke bomb against the door, the cool ceramic a familiar comfort in his hand. He took a deep breath, focusing his will, and then he threw it. The bomb smashed against the wood, the sound of shattering ceramic a deafening roar, and the alley was instantly filled with a thick, obscuring cloud of white smoke. The guards' shouts turned to confused cries, their senses overwhelmed, their formation broken.
He didn't hesitate. He kicked the door in, the wood splintering under the force of the blow, and burst into the building. He was in a narrow, cluttered hallway, the air thick with the smell of disinfectant and fear. He could hear the guards' panicked shouts, the sounds of their footsteps as they tried to regroup, their movements clumsy and inefficient in the blinding smoke.
He moved with a fluid, deadly grace, a phantom in the chaos. He drew the Sword of Triton, the blade humming with a dark, malevolent energy, and he went to work. He was a whirlwind of destruction, a one-man army, a force of nature. The first guard went down without a sound, the mythical blade slicing through his throat, the blood a dark spray in the white smoke. The second guard died a moment later, the point of the sword piercing his heart, a look of utter surprise on his face.
He fought his way through the building, a ghost in the machine, a predator in the henhouse. He was a master of close-quarters combat, a genius in his field, and the smoke was his ally, a cloak of invisibility that allowed him to strike from the shadows, to vanish before they could even react. He was a monster, a beast, a creature of myth and legend, and he was loving every minute of it.
He found the stairs and took them two at a time, the sounds of the battle fading behind him. He was heading back to the top floor, back to the Collector's office, back to the source of the problem. He was a Yakuza, a man who believed in cutting off the head of the snake, and he was not going to leave this island until the Collector was dead, or at the very least, completely and utterly broken.
He reached the top floor and found it in a state of chaos. The guards were trying to regroup, their movements clumsy and inefficient, their faces a mask of confusion and fear. The Collector was gone, but the evidence of his presence was everywhere: the shattered skylight, the bodies of the two guards, the book that lay open on the desk.
Arima ignored the guards. He moved with a purpose, a predator on the hunt, and went straight to the desk. He could feel a faint, almost imperceptible hum emanating from the book, a strange, alien energy that resonated with a deep, primal part of his soul. He picked it up, the leather cool and smooth under his fingers, and he opened it.
It was a ledger, a detailed account of the Collector's business. Names, dates, prices, descriptions of the "merchandise." It was a treasure trove of information, a key to the island's underworld, a weapon that could be used to bring the whole rotten structure crashing down. He thumbed through the pages, his eyes scanning the entries, and he found it. The sale of the shipwright.
"Kairi," he read, the name a silent whisper on his lips. "Shipwright. Age 24. Devil Fruit user. Unique ability to manipulate wood. Sold to Captain 'Iron-Fist' Rorkaan. Ship: The Predator. Destination: Sabaody Archipelago. ETA: 3 days."
Rorkaan. The name was new to him, but he committed it to memory. Sabaody Archipelago. The destination. It was a lead, a thread he could follow. He closed the ledger, the leather cool and smooth under his fingers, and he tucked it into his inventory.
"I'm a Yakuza," he thought, a grim smile on his face. "I know how to use a key."
He could hear the guards' shouts growing louder, their footsteps echoing on the stairs. They were regrouping, their fear giving way to a desperate, cornered-rat fury. He had to move. He couldn't fight his way out of this, not against an entire army of angry men. He had to be smart.
He looked around the office, his eyes scanning the room, looking for a way out. The shattered skylight was a possibility, but the fall was too great, even for him. The door was a deathtrap. Then he saw it. A large, ornate tapestry, hanging on the far wall, a depiction of a sea battle, a relic from a bygone era. It was a cliché, a hidden door behind a tapestry, but it was also a possibility.
He moved with a fluid, deadly grace, a phantom in the chaos, and pulled the tapestry aside. Behind it was a small, unassuming door, made of dark, polished wood. He tried the handle. It was unlocked. He smiled, a cold, hard glint in his eyes. Some things never changed.
He slipped through the door, closing it softly behind him, the sounds of the battle fading away. He was in a narrow, secret passage, the air thick with the smell of dust and old paper. It was a private escape route, a coward's path, a fitting exit for a man like the Collector. He followed the passage, his movements silent and deliberate, the Sword of Triton a reassuring weight at his hip, the Sea Prism Stones a heavy, promising presence in his pouch.
The passage ended in a small, hidden staircase, leading down. He took it, the sounds of the town growing louder as he descended. He was in the bowels of the building, the basement, the place where the slaves were kept. The air was thick with the smell of despair, a tangible, suffocating miasma of fear and hopelessness. He could feel their auras, a sea of dim, flickering lights, a constellation of broken dreams.
He ignored them for now. He had a mission, a purpose, and he couldn't afford to be distracted. He was a Yakuza, a man who understood the importance of focus, of cutting out the noise and concentrating on the target. He found a small, unassuming door, a service exit, and he slipped out, the cool night air a welcome shock to his system.
He was in a small, garbage-strewn courtyard, the walls high and unscalable. But there was a drainpipe, a large, rusty pipe that ran up the side of the building. He grabbed it, the rough metal cool and solid in his hands, and he started to climb.
He reached the top and pulled himself onto the roof, the city spreading out before him, a sea of lights and shadows. He could feel the guards' panicked energy, a chaotic, angry swarm searching the streets below, but they were looking for a man on the ground, not a phantom on the rooftops. He was a ghost, a predator in the urban jungle, and he was free.
He moved with a fluid, deadly grace, a phantom in the moonlight, the Observation Haki a constant, low-level hum, painting the town in shades of life and intent. He could feel the city's pulse, a chaotic, vibrant symphony of human emotion, and he was a part of it, a new, dangerous note in the composition.
He reached the docks, the familiar smells of salt and fish a welcome comfort. The sloop was where he had left it, a small, dark shadow in the moonlight. He dropped down from the rooftops, landing softly on the deck, the two thugs scrambling to their feet, their faces a mask of fear and relief.
"Boss!" one of them stammered, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and terror. "We... we thought you were..."
"I'm hard to kill," Arima said, a grim smile on his face. "Get us ready to sail. Now."
He went below deck and found Gills Malone huddled in a corner, his face a mask of terror. "It's done," Arima said, his voice a low growl. "The Collector's operation is... compromised. But I have a new target. A man named Captain 'Iron-Fist' Rorkaan. He has a ship. A ship I want. And he has something that belongs to my new associate. You're going to tell me everything you know about him."
Gills' eyes widened, a flicker of understanding, and a new kind of fear, crossing his face. "Rorkaan? He's... he's a monster. A real pirate. Not like the small-time crews around here. He's a brute, a titan of a man with a strength that's... unnatural. They say he can crush a man's skull with his bare hands. His ship, The Predator, is a fortress, a modified galleon with a reinforced hull and enough cannons to take out a Marine fleet. He's not a man you cross."
"Good thing I'm not here to have a drink with him," Arima said, a cold, hard glint in his eyes. "Where is he? Where's he headed?"
"Last I heard, he was heading for the Sabaody Archipelago," Gills stammered, his eyes darting around the cabin, looking for an escape. "It's a lawless place, a haven for pirates and slavers. A perfect market for a man like him. He'll be there in three days, maybe less, depending on the winds."
"Sabaody," Arima repeated, the name a grim promise on his lips. The ledger had confirmed it. The trail was clear. He now had a destination, a target, and a timeline. He was no longer a lost soul, adrift in a strange new world. He was a hunter on the trail.
"Get us to Silas's shipyard," he ordered the two thugs on deck. "Now."
The sloop set sail, the wind at its back, the moon a silver witness to their departure from the town, a place of chaos and opportunity, a place he had left his mark on. The two thugs were silent, their faces a mask of fear and awe, their movements a desperate attempt to please the new, terrifying force that had entered their lives. They were a long way from the small-time smuggling operation they had been a part of, a long way from the predictable, manageable world of Gills Malone.
He found Takeshi waiting for him at the shipyard, a lean, solitary figure standing on a wooden pier, the cool, grey of his eyes a stark contrast to the warm, golden light of the setting sun. He was watching the sloop as it approached, his posture relaxed, but Arima could feel the coiled energy in him, the focused discipline of a master swordsman.
Arima brought the sloop alongside the pier, the two thugs fumbling with the ropes, their faces pale with fear. He leapt onto the wooden planks, the landing soft and assured. "She's gone," he said, without preamble. "The Collector sold her two days ago. To a pirate named 'Iron-Fist' Rorkaan. His ship, The Predator, is headed for the Sabaody Archipelago."
Takeshi's expression didn't change, but Arima could feel a subtle shift in his aura, a cold, hard anger that was a mirror of his own. "Rorkaan," he repeated, the name a low growl. "I know of him. A brute. A Zoan-user. A man who enjoys his work. Sabaody... it's a lawless place. A nest of vipers. Finding her there will not be easy."
"Nothing worth doing is," Arima replied, a grim smile on his face. "I have a ship that needs fixing. And you have a debt to settle. It seems our paths align."
Takeshi's lips quirked into a small, almost imperceptible smile. "So they do." He turned and gestured towards the far end of the shipyard, where the skeleton of a massive ship lay in dry dock, its hull a dark, imposing silhouette against the fading light. "Silas is waiting for you. He's an... eccentric man. But he is the best. The only one on this island who can handle what you have in mind for that wreck."
They walked towards the old shipwright, the two thugs trailing behind them at a safe distance, their fear a palpable cloud. Silas was a gnome of a man, old and wiry, with a face that was a roadmap of wrinkles and a permanent scowl etched onto his features. He was standing on a scaffolding, a hammer in one hand, a pipe in the other, squinting at the massive hull of the Queen Anne's Revenge.
"So, you're the one with the cursed sword and the pockets full of other people's money," Silas grumbled, not even bothering to look at them. "Takeshi here tells me you want to bring this old girl back from the dead. You have any idea what you're asking for?"
"I'm asking for her to be seaworthy," Arima said, his gaze fixed on the ship, the familiar thrill of a collector looking at a prize piece coursing through him. "The rest is negotiable."
Silas finally turned, his small, beady eyes a pale, washed-out blue. He looked at Arima, then at the Sword of Triton at his hip, a flicker of something, a professional's curiosity, crossing his face. "Seaworthy is one thing. Restoring her to what she was... that's another. That requires more than just money. It requires Adam Wood."
He pointed the stem of his pipe at the massive, tattered sails of the Queen Anne's Revenge. "The rigging, the masts... they're made of it. Or what's left of them. You can't fix that with any old lumber from the island. Adam Wood is lighter than iron but stronger than steel. It's the only thing that can handle the stress of a ship that size, especially in the Grand Line."
"And where do I get this Adam Wood?" Arima asked, a cold, hard glint in his eyes.
"You don't," Silas grunted, taking a long drag from his pipe. "Not from around here. The only people who have regular access to it are the shipwrights of Water Seven or the Marines. And they don't sell. You'd have to find a black market dealer, and even then, you'd be looking at a price that would make a World Noble blink."
Arima's jaw tightened. Two hundred million. A log. He had the Sea Prism Stones, a fortune in theory, but it was an unrealised asset. He couldn't walk into a bank and cash in a box of contraband. He needed liquid capital. He needed the fifteen million Berry he'd taken from the cave, and he needed more.
"How much for the 'Basic Repairs'?" he asked, his mind already calculating, moving the pieces on the board.
Silas squinted, scratching his scraggly beard with the stem of his pipe. "With standard lumber? I can patch her up, make her hold together. Give her a new coat of tar, replace the railings. She won't be pretty, and she won't be fast, but she'll float. For you... three million Berry. Plus the cost of materials."
A deal. One he could afford. It was a temporary solution, a patch on a gaping wound, but it was a start. It would get the ship seaworthy. It would get him to Sabaody.
"Done," Arima said, the word a final, unarguable decree. "The materials are on their way. I'll have my man," he gestured vaguely at Gills' cowering thugs who were still hovering near the sloop, "bring the cash in the morning. I want this done yesterday."
Silas grunted, a noncommittal sound that was as close to agreement as he was likely to get. "Don't rush a master, boy. This old girl has been through a lot. She needs a steady hand." He tapped the hull of the Queen Anne's Revenge with the head of his hammer, a dull, resonant thud that seemed to echo with the ghosts of past battles. "The basic repairs will take two days. Maybe three if the wood gives me trouble."
"Two days," Arima repeated. The timeline was tight. Rorkaan had a three-day head start. He couldn't afford to fall behind. He looked at Takeshi, a silent question in his eyes.
Takeshi met his gaze, a flicker of understanding passing between them. "We will be ready," he said, his calm, measured tone a stark contrast to the raw, brutal energy that radiated from Arima.
With that settled, Arima turned and walked back towards the sloop, the two thugs scrambling to get out of his way. He was a man with a plan, a series of calculated risks leading to a single, ultimate goal. The Collector's ledger was a key, and he was about to use it to unlock the island's darkest secrets.
He found Gills Malone in the cabin, huddled in a corner, a bottle of cheap rum clutched in his trembling hands. He looked up, his face a mask of terror, as Arima entered.
"It's time to earn your keep," Arima said, his voice a low growl. He tossed the Collector's ledger onto the table, the heavy thud making Gills jump.